


a cop, a killer, and a dead man

by Jenwryn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Carter knows, Multi, Podfic Available, third season what third season, this was just meant to be boning why are there so many words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Were you listening?" Joss asks, automatically. A habit. She rests her hand against the edge of the table. Resists making a fist.</p><p>"Always," confirms Harold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cop, a killer, and a dead man

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I have not drunk enough this week to justify the sheer amount of alcohol that appeared in this story. It became a goddamn leitmotif. What the actual fuck.

_A cop, a killer, and a dead man walk into a bar_ , Joss quips into the quiet of her own head.

She watches Finch as he orders their drinks. She could pick him out of a line-up at a hundred paces, at this point. It's not the limp, not the way that he walks. It's more how he holds himself, something about the subdued self-assurance contained within the planes of his back. She watches him, as he stands by the bar, relaxed amongst the throng of people: he's present, but he’s distant, too. It's as though the very noise of them – their chatter, their laughter, the flash of their phones – bounce off of him without leaving a dint. But Joss doubts that, very much. The more she knows the man, the more she doubts of it. 

Harold Finch gives a damn. 

"See something you like?" John asks.

Joss hadn't heard him arrive. Hadn't heard him slip across the leather of the seat opposite hers. _Aggravating_. He's smiling at her, when she turns her gaze in his direction; slow, and wide, his predator's grin. 

Joss raises her eyebrows in return. Plays coy and amused, rather than give him the satisfaction of any kind of truth.

"You don't?" she enquires, sweetly, as Finch puts their drinks on the table.

Finch has ordered for John, as well as for Joss. She wonders whether Finch had asked John in advance, or whether he had simply made the choice on John's behalf. 

He squeezes in, carefully, on the seat next to John. Their shoulders rest close, but not quite touching.

She's hit a nerve somewhere within John, though. His eyes are curious even as he huffs at her; curious, as they look sideways, at Finch. There's no added colour to John's complexion, nothing as simple as that, nothing so obviously revealing, but Joss wonders if there would be, if only John weren't such a master of self-composure. She files the knowledge in her mind, deep and deeply intrigued, and raises her lager in a toast to criminals dumb enough to make their jobs simple for once.

It's been one hell of a week; about time they'd caught an easy break.

"Detective," says Finch, because his timing has never been less than impeccable. ”There's something we've decided you ought to know."

*

John's hands are warm against Joss's skin, as he works to untie her. He's careful, gentle even, against the raw places where wire has jerked her skin into bleeding. He speaks as he works, deliberately distracting her, she's sure, with judgy comments about her captors' lack of finesse.

Finch's voice is busy in both of their earpieces, making observations about the level of bloodshed. Joss isn't sure whether Finch complaining about her kidnappers, or about John, but either way she's grateful to the both of them for giving her something to listen to: the pain is strong, vibrant, running through her system with the blazing assistance of adrenaline. Fat lot of use for flight or fight, though, when you're tied to a chair and bleeding. 

The building sure is going to have to replace their swanky carpet. Guess that's what they get for soundproofing their apartments.

"Don't move for a moment, Detective," says John, and Joss sits, silent with pain and —embarrassment. 

This had been her first number – the first number she had known was a number – and she'd gone and gotten herself caught in the crossfire. Literally: caught. Well played, Joss. She knows it's pointless to be annoyed with herself but she is, regardless. It was a rookie mistake, and she should have known better. 

John has picked up one of the bottles he'd used to take down the slowest of the men. Now he unscrews it, takes a sniff, and waits for Joss's small nod of assent before sloshing it liberally against her bleeding wrists. It burns like a mother, but she's had worse, and her captors had at least been smart enough to avoid nicking veins. The vodka washes her clean enough for John to bandage her swiftly with what appear to be actual bandages, squirrelled out from the depths of his jacket pockets. 

He offers her a swig from the bottle, and she does take a mouthful. Just enough to take the edge off the edge, nothing more. It's a long time she's drunk vodka neat; the fumes warm her mouth even as the liquid smoothes down her throat. Easy. Good. 

John's fingers are soothing against Joss's palms. He rubs them, slowly, before releasing her. He helps her to her feet. She smells of alcohol and lingering annoyance. The vodka has begun to hit her empty stomach, and it’s feeling somewhat uneasy. John looks like he's barely even been in a fight.

"Thank you," she says, and she means it.

"We make a good term," John nods and, admittedly, Joss could kick him for that. This was hardly her idea of optimal teamwork – being strapped to a chair while John beats the crap out of everyone else in the room.

"What Mr. Reese is trying to say," murmurs Finch in her earpiece, "is that we wouldn't have found them without you. It was you, stumbling across them, that made the case. They showed their hand. Detective Fusco is returning our number to her home as we speak. She's safe."

 _Safe._ A smile quirks across the corner of Joss's mouth. _Safe_. "Yeah. Well." She shrugs. "It's a graceless job, but someone's gotta do it."

John brings Joss her shoes. He helps her put them on, too, despite her protest that that's entirely unnecessary: they both know that’s a lie right now.

The weight of John’s hand lingers at the small of Joss’s back, as they head from the room. 

The place really is going to need new carpet, Joss thinks, and the sound of sirens swell even as he leads her to safety. 

*

The fifth number they give her – the fifth number that she knows is a number – leads her to a rapist in Brooklyn. Joss has him in handcuffs, while John is still shadowing a number on the other side of town, and she's reading the perp his rights before Finch can even check in on her progress.

A bad man, behind good, solid bars, and a victim eager to testify. 

Joss could think about the machine, on her way home. Joss could dwell on the sinister nature of an all-watching computer. Instead, she focuses on a job well done. Focuses on that bad man unable to do bad things anymore. Focuses on the bruises, too, which are already swelling across her ribcage.

The bruises will last a good few weeks, but the job well done will last significantly longer. 

The cider she finds on her kitchen table is boutique, Swedish, just a little bit hipster, and Joss stares at it where it sits, in its unassuming gift box. She stares at it, until she recognises that Taylor is peering at her from across the top of his laptop; that Taylor's music, usually bleeding through his earphones, is suspiciously muted. 

"Raise, or a secret admirer?" Taylor asks. Cheeky. Too perceptive. So very much her son. 

"It can't be both?" Joss jokes, but it's a strike close to the bone.

"Nice taste," she whispers, later, as she opens the refrigerator to gather the makings of dinner.

 _You're most welcome,_ buzzes a message on her phone.

 _Creepers,_ Joss texts right back.

She knows that she's smiling. 

*

"Have you given any thought," John asks, "about what you'll be doing when this is all over?"

Joss looks at him sideways. The half-light of the car shades his face into darker lines. It's hard to find a truly unlit corner in the heart of New York, but Finch sure knows where to park them.

She says, amused, "Is this your way of asking if I have investments in Florida?"

The idea of retiring to, well, anywhere, really, seems increasingly slim. None of her jobs have exactly been chosen with an emphasis on self-preservation, but the longer she works with John, with Finch – the longer she parks in dark alleyways with ex-CIA agents – the shorter a time she's likely to have left.

John laughs, lowly. The sound curls in her stomach, prodding at places she'd thought she'd stopped paying attention to. 

John says, "Maybe it's my way of asking if you'd like to share a whisky with me, when we've taken this cartel down."

*

The bartender puts cocktails in front of her and Zoe. Fancy. Girly. Joss’s is particularly pink. She'd let Zoe order, preoccupied by Finch's voice in her ear, and she supposes she ought to have known better – there _had_ been a mischievous glint in the woman's eye when they'd taken their place by the bar, after all. 

"Bottoms up," says Zoe.

Joss can go with that, can roll with the buzz of the pink drink against her tongue. She grins. Sips. Enjoys.

Joss isn't sure she's ever seen so many women in one place before. They dance; bodies close, closer. There's no-one to harass them here, no-one to catcall at the couples making out, grinding.

"You know what I'd like?" purrs Zoe, with that voice she has, that voice that she usually wields against John. 

Joss half thinks she's going to ask for a quickie in the bathroom; it's not like she hasn't seen the way the woman looks at Shaw. 

(Shaw is dancing at the moment. Surprisingly well. Unsurprisingly dangerously. She fits in here better than most of the locations Joss has seen her in; at least, the locations without the involvement of deadly force. Certainly better than at the last club they’d been undercover in.)

“A private line to the dirtiest back rooms of the White House?” Joss hazards.

Zoe grins. “Well, sure. But most of all I’d like to see the our boys go undercover in a gay bar. It’s definitely their turn next.” Her voice is light, teasing, just loud enough to carry to Joss and not to the women around them. There's a story in it, an understanding, and Joss stares at Zoe for only a moment; can't help but laugh. 

Joss has seen the way John and Harold look at each other. How foolish, to imagine that Zoe, of all people, might somehow have missed it. 

"Our number's to your nine," interrupts John quietly, into Joss's earpiece. His voice slides through Joss’s thoughts with the same quiet ease that Finch’s does. Joss turns into Zoe's arms immediately, faux-intimately; puts down her drink, and tugs Zoe towards the dance floor. 

Joss focuses on the job. Doesn't think about John's mouth upon Finch's. Doesn't imagine the _sound_ of them.

"There," urges Finch, and their number falls back against Zoe, even as Joss swings out against their perpetrator.

Joss pushes her to the wall, and flashes her badge.

*

It's winter. Cold, white-cold, and the ice in the air bites with bitter contrast against the hot Glühwein that John thrusts into her hands as they walk amongst the German-themed Christmas stalls. Their number is happy, laughing; strolling, with his girlfriend, from booth to booth; cooing over wooden decorations and fine blown glass. 

"Aren't we working?" Joss asks, breathing in the heady scent of red wine and spices.

"I think, Joss, that we're freezing," John deadpans.

Joss drinks from the paper cup. She lets the heat of it seep through her gloves to her skin beneath, then enjoys it smoothing through her body and into the curve of her stomach. It spins through her, not the heady heat of alcohol so much as the heady heat of warm, _warm_ ; concentrated at her navel, swaying at her backbone. 

She can feel the mulled wine melting her. 

She can see white warmth John's breath, as he crowds in before her. 

"Just go with it," he whispers, apologetic. Then she has her back to a lamppost, and John’s mouth hot to hers, the taste of the wine strong between them. John’s hand brushes against her face, tucks her snow-scattered hair beneath her beanie; slides down to curl, soft, soft, amongst the folds of her scarf. Joss pushes her way through the surprise, opens her eyes to the familiar sound of their perp and his friends in the background – he'd made them before, they can't afford for him to make them again, not with this many people around. Not with children singing carols. 

Joss kisses back. Joss winds her hands around John's neck. Joss brushes her thumbs to the cold line of skin between his coat and his hair. Joss arches into him, flows with it, rides the heat of the Glühwein and the feel of him against her. Secure, she thinks. John's secure. John's security. 

"Now, Mr. Reese," orders Finch’s voice in their ears. Then there's the sound of people startling, as John runs through the crowd to the dark streets beyond. And Joss needs to follow him, Joss needs to back him up, but it takes her a second. It really takes her a second. 

The heat of the wine – the heat of the kiss – run with her as she goes. 

*

The case is simple, once they have all their facts together. Actually, the obtaining of the facts had taken considerably longer than the solving – but nobody had even had to be injured. Joss enjoys the feeling of one-less-person-dead, as she watches the siblings sit down their their lawyers in preference to duking it out like the youngest had originally planned. 

It's a good feeling, to be able to holster her gun. To be able to pick up her bag and her keys and prepare for the drive back home.

“Detective." Finch's voice. 

Joss closes her eyes for a moment. Stands in the ladies, where she'd been washing the day off of her face. Waits for the sound of the people around her to distract her from the sound of him; she would be waiting a long time, she thinks. She’s attuned to him now. To him, and to John. It’s Pavlovian. Instinctive.

"Do we have another number?" she asks, low.

"Not at the moment, no." He's quiet a while, and Joss opens her eyes. Looks at the cops around her, just trying to get home after another long shift at the Precinct. She could do with a back rub. She could do with a home-cooked meal. She wonders whether Taylor is already back from his study group. Probably not; he’d texted that he’d drop in at her mom's after. 

"Finch?"

Finch clears his throat. "Yes. Well. Mr. Reese and I were wondering if you would like to join us for a walk. With Bear. There's this lovely little Italian place. They do some rather delightful pasta, and their range of _amari_ is quite exquisite."

Joss pulls her phone from her pocket. Checks her texts. Taylor’s sticking ‘round for mom’s roast beef and potatoes. 

Someone hits the button on the hand dryer and it hums, over-loudly. 

Joss shifts her shoulders experimentally. Says, "Sure."

*

 _Sex with John_ , Joss thinks, and, _oh_. John's already inside of her, slid deep with a slow, smooth movement that had made her moan, and this was supposed to have been make-believe. Supposed to have been make-believe, but the length of him is there, strong, heavy. She flexes around him, shifts her hips, cries out when he moves; hates herself and hates the universe, and fuck, _fuck_. His hands are broad, careful; stroking; humbling. _Sex with John_ , and she has her legs wrapped around him, has her body arched as close as she can get it: greedy, hungry, wanting _more_ and _now_ and then _again, please_.

The bottle of tequila rolls to the floor, unopened; scoots across the carpet to rest against a chair leg. 

Joss knows they might be being watched. She knows they might be putting on a show. She turns her face away from the window and into John’s shoulder. She rocks up around him, hard, as he rocks down into her. She cries out; cannot care; swears. She shudders towards her peak as she feels him listening, sees that look on his face that means Harold is talking, Harold is talking, and Joss's orgasm rocks through her, pushes her up and along, and she watches as John comes from her, and from Harold's voice; feels him twitching into the condom inside of her, jerking against her until his elbows can barely keep his weight above her. 

"John," says Harold, and she's come down enough that she can focus now. Can focus on his voice, too, as well as on John. ” _John_ ,” breathes Harold, and then, “ _Joss_.” His voice is wobbly. Joss isn’t sure she’s ever heard him so surprised.

Joss stares up at the motel ceiling. Blows her hair from her forehead. Feels her heart beat, feels it race to a tune of its own inside the confines of her ribcage.

She keeps her legs wrapped around John. Keeps her hands gripped against his back, tight, tight.

Hopes he gets the message that she can't yet shape into words. 

*

Taylor orders eggs and bacon, and studies her from across the table. It's twelve past midnight but it's also a Friday, and he's not working on the weekend so he can sleep in. Hell, maybe even she can sleep in, if the machine takes a holiday – well, if people take a holiday. From being... people. Yeah, and that's going to happen. 

John and Harold are talking in their library, bickering gently down the line, across the airways, and into Joss’s right ear. She wonders, briefly, if they’ve simply forgotten to close the channel, but then, she can't really imagine Harold doing anything much by accident. It's comforting, and she finds herself smiling. She tries to direct her pleasure at the waitress, who's arrived with their order – Taylor's eggs, and Joss's pancakes and hot chocolate. (Hot chocolate, she discovers, with a bonus shot of Baileys. A perk of having saved the girl's cousin from an unpleasant repairman a few months' ago, she supposes.)

Taylor's exaggerated eyebrow-raise tells her he isn't buying a moment of it. "I am _so_ not even going to ask," he mutters, amused. 

She flicks a piece of pancake at him, playfully, and changes the subject to a girl he's been mentioning with increasing frequency. 

Joss sips her laced hot chocolate. Eats her pancakes, with too much syrup. Listens to Taylor. Listens to John and Harold. Listens to Bear, barking happily in the background, as the mens' voices turn from bickering to amusement, and then to something so dangerously close to affection that Joss can feel herself go soft at the sound of it. 

"I'm glad," says Taylor, in between bacon; in between a comment about baseball and a complaint about his history teacher. "I'm glad, Mom."

*

Joss hasn't been keeping track of the numbers. She hasn’t been counting. Some will stand out for a long time, though, she knows; there are always cases that vanish with time, and cases that attach themselves to her skull in a permanent way. 

Joss thinks she'll remember this one, as she smooths down the gown that Harold had bought her – or, possibly, that Harold had made her; Joss still isn't entirely sure whether John had been joking about that. For all she knows, their reclusive billionaire might actually have a sewing room tucked away in the depths of his library. Whatever its provenance, though, the dress is beautiful; dark and gleaming.

Harold is beside her, as they walk into the auditorium – his hand upon her waist, and his clothes as sharp as any she's ever seen him in. 

Harold hadn't wanted this assignment, at first. Hadn't agreed that they would look plausible together. It had taken her a moment to realise that that was a compliment.

John had had to whisper something in his ear; low, persuasive.

Joss had watched their communication with almost-amusement. With almost-anticipation. 

The dress had appeared within mere hours, and Harold's hands had been warm against her body as he’d smoothed the material across her; as he’d brought in a seam here, as he’d shortened a hem there. It was almost indecent, having him kneel before her, having his hands upon his body even while he asked, “May I?”, as if that were a courtesy rather than a genuine question. As if he knew that she was never going to say no. As he fixed it, so that she looked the way he thought she should. The way he preferred her, at least for this time and place. 

Joss had understood, rapidly, the hand that Harold played in John’s costumes. She’d understood, too, the naked pleasure that Harold gets on his face when he looks at John, all dressed up with somewhere to go. She wonders what it would be like, to be dressed by Harold on a regular basis. 

She's been wet since Harold had run his thumb down her spine, along the curve of her left hip. 

"Ma'am?" the waiter asks, and she looks up at him, startled. The waiter is John. He hands her a tall glass of white wine, fashionably dewy.

Their number strides across the room as Joss pretends to drink. The fizz and the bubbles of the sparkling white dance beneath her nose. Expensive. Tickling. 

Harold’s hand tightens against her, as their number beelines in her direction.

Harold doesn’t look concerned, Joss realises. He looks possessive.

It’s an expression that he and John share.

 _Just a role_ , Joss reminds herself. _Just a role._

*

The girl is fifteen, maybe sixteen. The drink, let fall in her lap, is blue. Absinthe: drink of artists, and those with no love for their livers. The girl is sprawled across an old sofa, head back, and Joss checks her airways while she waits for a bus to arrive. She'd been the one to ID the girl in the first place, and she'd been the closest once they’d ascertained the threat was.

"Will she be alright, Detective?" asks Harold in Joss's ear.

"For now, I think.” 

She can hear it so clearly, these days. The concern he gets for each and every number. He's almost always willing to believe the best of them. To presume, to hope, even, that they are the victim.

Sandri here is both victim and perpetrator. Premeditated acts against her own person. It isn't the first time they've had her number. 

"You can't save people who don't want to be saved," John says, softly, across the comms. She thinks he's speaking to Harold.

“Sometimes, you can encourage them to change their minds, though,” replies Joss. She thinks of John, and she thinks of Harold, and she thinks of this complicated web they’ve woven themselves. How much is web, and how much is safety net?

*

"Were you listening?" Joss asks, automatically. A habit. She rests her hand against the edge of the table. Resists making a fist.

"Always," confirms Harold.

Joss smiles, relieved. Takes a drink from her sake, small in its cup. Reaches for a fork, instead of the chopsticks. 

Fusco pauses in mid-chew, brow suddenly furrowed.

"Are you—?" He pauses, obviously uncertain of what it is that he actually wants to ask. He takes a gulp of his soda. He looks at her again, then at the couple they've been trailing, then at his plate. "You and our mutual friend," he tries. "I mean..." He trails off, clearly unsure whether he really wants to know, now that he's begun to ask. He shakes his head. ”On second thoughts, forget I was asking.”

Joss's mouth twitches into a grin. "Here," she says. “Let me shout you another soda."

Fusco looks pleased.

In her ear, Joss can hear the quiet tap of Harold typing. 

_Always_.

*

"Brandy," says Harold, with the tone of one used to having his directives followed. “And don't warm the glass.”

Harold's palm is stroking Joss’s thigh. John's hand is around her, brushing at the soft dip of her cleavage. Joss does her best to focus upon their number across the room, rather than the touch of them, but it's hard. Admittedly, it would have been hard even without the distractions; she can barely see the man. Apparently this club is as famous for protecting its patrons' privacy, as it is for indulging them. Their perp likes to share his space with other lovers, likes to feel the rush of exhibitionism and voyeurism – but not at the expense of having his own face seen. 

Joss hasn't asked Harold what they paid to get in here, but the credit card he'd used had been discreet and black. The pretty boy at the front desk had been entirely unfazed by it, however, which had spoken volumes to Joss about the bank balances of the club’s usual clientele.

"And for your companions, Sir?"

“That will do for now.”

The girl hurries away, careful to keep her gaze from the shadows where they’re sitting.

Harold Wren is not Harold Finch, but Joss knows the facade well enough to be comfortable with his hand upon her. She can feel him keeping to character, though; can feel the set of his shoulders, as his hand slides up further beneath her dress. She wonders whether Harold Wren is known for bringing friends to places like this, or whether this is a new adventure for the multi-billionaire. 

She wonders whether it's a new adventure for Harold Finch.

Their number is moving, his body shifting against the bodies of his companions, in the strange half-light of this place. The sounds are familiar. Sex. Really good sex.

John's hand slips below Joss’s collar, slides to cup her breast, to squeeze, to thumb her nipple into standing. Joss shivers, and the motion lets Harold’s hand slip between her thighs, slip down to press against her. She can feel Harold’s thumb, blunt and solid, and if she can feel Harold’s thumb, then Harold can feel how wet she is, and the panic rises within her even as she focuses upon their number – focuses upon their number and the excellent sex he’s having, the curve of one of the women’s bodies knelt down between his legs and sucking. Sucking— Joss can hear them, Christ. She’s a goddamn professional. There is nothing professional about this. 

And then Harold leans against her to run his tongue across John’s mouth.

“ _Guys_ ,” she whispers. 

It’s meant to be a protest. It sounds more like a petition. 

*

It’s been a long nine hours. Not long, in theory, compared to even a normal shift at the Precinct, but normal shifts at the Precinct don’t usually involve two high-speed car chases, one ambush with a colleague’s favourite rocket-launcher, and one fundamentally illegal overseas jaunt.

Standing just shy of the waves, Joss and Harold watch as John manhandles their recalcitrant victim to their possibly-stolen rental, all so that he can get a good eyeful of the man they’ve got trussed up in the trunk. Joss would give John a hand, but it’s not as though he needs it, and the actual threat had been neutralised over half an hour ago.

Not that their number’s victim would believe it, until he’d seen the proof with his own eyes.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that Shaw hadn’t shot them both.

At the water’s edge, beside Joss, Harold is smiling. It’s his small smile, his slightly crooked smile, the smile that she never sees enough of. 

There is a chance, Joss thinks, that she loves it.

John has clearly had his fill of their shouting victim, since he gives Shaw the pleasure of tying him up, too; time for a little time-out, so to speak, in the trunk Shaw’s definitely-stolen rental. 

Joss toes off her shoes. She steps into the ocean, and lets the water lap at her feet. Cool. Good. She could stay here, she thinks, for a while, quite happily, if she didn’t have a son waiting. She’s exhausted by the thought of heading back to New York. Of heading back to paperwork, and to the struggle of finding something edible in the fridge. 

“It’s Taylor,” says Harold, and he hands her a phone. She doesn’t ask why the call is going through him.

Can Taylor stay at Matt’s?

“Sure, sweetheart. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The water is cool, and Shaw is happily watching their captives, and John brings them all froofy drinks with umbrellas in them from a stall down the beach, and Joss can see that there’s a pattern here, now. Associating with these men. Drinking with them. 

Caring for them.

Joss rolls up her slacks and walks into the ocean. It’s Harold who joins her. And Bear, of course. 

And Joss is soaked, and Joss is happy, and John is laughing at them from the dry sand, and Bear is biting waves and barking, and Joss can do this, she can.

Harold Finch offers her his hand, as the waves push against them, and Joss takes it.

* 

_A cop, a killer, and a dead man walk into a bar_ , Joss thinks, and she laughs even as she gasps. The sounds bring a grin to John’s face, though he really can’t have any idea about her internal joke. Or, maybe he has every idea, Joss considers, since they’re the three of them here in the same situation and – ah, there, yes, _good_.

Noise, from the drinkers downstairs, rolls up to Joss’s ears. Bits and pieces. Starts and stops. The thrum of guitars, and the high-pitched squeal of drunk girls laughing. _Once we become predictable, we become vulnerable_ , Harold had said, and he sticks to it, even in this. Joss lets the noise flow over her, lets it slide past her mind.

Joss watches as John’s hands progress along her hips. Watches, as he smiles up at her. Watches, as he gets that look of his, that look of anticipation, as he dips his head between her thighs, intent. 

Joss is still grinning, even as she braces herself for the touch of his tongue against her.

“Something amusing?” Harold asks, and he might be leaving off the honorific _Detective_ in deference to their bedroom state, but Joss can hear it anyway. It shivers inside of her, alongside of John’s tongue; warms her like John does, as he nudges her legs further apart; as he moves his mouth against her. John’s skin is warm, rough-soft-rough, and he nuzzles at her cheerfully; as he tongues, licks, noses, breathes. John is good, so good, and all the better because they both know he’s enjoying himself as much as she is. Joss luxuriates in it. In his attention. In his attention to detail. In the way his tongue slips inside of her, tasting. In the way she can lean back into the pillows, and shake beneath his touch, and all the while watch Harold touching John, even as John touches her. 

It’s the look that they get on their faces. A slow burn. A slow burn of affection, caught fire, and the flames willing to heat her too. 

_A cop, a killer, and a dead man_ , she thinks again. She lets her head loll back, lets herself focus wholly on John, wholly on John and the way that he’s planning to get her off, and lick her clean, and fuck Harold while Harold fucks her; the way that their bodies will touch and kiss and press against her.

“Guys,” she says, and it’s a moan. It’s a sigh. It’s a word caught up in the brush of John’s mouth, in the stroke of Harold’s touch. 

There’s nothing but water on the bedside table. 

Nothing to intoxicate but the burn itself.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] a cop, a killer, and a dead man by Jenwryn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387825) by [sk_lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sk_lee/pseuds/sk_lee)




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